


better late than the never we've been told before

by smithens



Series: a love that won't sit still [4]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1930s, Domestic Fluff, Epistolary, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Moving In Together, Multi, Prank Calls, Queer Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Richard goes to fetch Thomas out of Downton. Some things have changed.Some haven't.
Relationships: Daisy Mason/Ivy Stuart, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: a love that won't sit still [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747162
Comments: 23
Kudos: 76





	better late than the never we've been told before

**Author's Note:**

> title from [vienna teng's city hall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdauE5f9jfc), about the [2004 same sex weddings in san francisco, california, usa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Francisco_2004_same-sex_weddings):
>
>> it's been 10 years waiting  
> but it's better late than the never  
> we've been told before  
> we can't wait one minute more
> 
> **content notes:** a joke about crossdressing (by someone fully in favour of crossdressing, but it is still a man in a dress joke, for those sensitive to that kind of humour), very mild war talk (you know me!), original lesbian characters (sorry if you're unfamiliar with the smithens multiverse but this is my fanfic and i get to choose the OCs), references to highly consensual sexual activity, sappy syrupy schmoopiness.
> 
> this one is short and sweet ♥

_18/5/33_

_Dearest Thomas,_

_I'm finally settled in the flat. Everything is in working order, names on the letterbox and all. Mind that return address; it will soon be yours, too._

_You were right about my whinging—it just needed a personal touch. We've got electricity and everything (lighting and in the kitchen, though I don't know if we'll need it for the latter), and enough furniture to get us by. Aren't we lucky to know so many people with cast offs? It's rather like the inside of my wardrobe—and we do have a wardrobe. We've also got a kitchen table, three chairs, a couple of night tables and a sofa, the latter of which currently arranged in what I am going to call the parlour. And perhaps most important of all, a bed fit for two. The second bedroom doesn't have one yet. We'll have to make that a priority. I suppose in the meantime we can put some linens on the sofa, since we have it. I'm afraid the plumbing will be a step down from what you and I are used to, but beggars can't be choosers._

_We'll get to call it all "ours", not "yours" or "mine", and certainly not "His Lordship's". That's the bit that my mind keeps going back to. It's the stuff of daydreams. I feel I've been waiting for this my whole life. Forty years old (if not for much longer, no need to remind me) and I'm finally to settle down—late for a normal man, but early for one who thought he'd be in service for all his days. Early at best! I'm thrilled, Thomas. There is no other way to say it that comes at all near to getting the feeling across._

_As for your departure out of Downton, I've arranged to take the whole day off. It didn't require much persuading, and I suspect Ted and Hannah will be glad to have a day without me up in their hair. I know you don't have much and it doubtless won't take so long as that to get everything in order, but I thought if the weather is pleasant we could spend some time in the village. You've got things to show me, and I don't mind telling you there are places I might like to see again, on the estate and off of it. The post office, for example. Or perhaps the inside of the Earl's garage. Or your bedroom. We can be stealthy, can't we?_

_Just for old times' sake._

_I'll telephone about the time of the coach as soon as I know._

_All the love in my heart,_

_Your_

_Richard_

* * *

**Downton Abbey, May 1933**

Laughter in the servants' hall, music on the wireless, hustle and bustle in the passages.

It's been near on six years since he was last here. The place could not be more different—the kitchen is crowded, for one thing, because Downton has kitchen maids now. What a wonder it is that the Royal Household is down to three hundred and the Abbey is back up in the dozens. He never spent much time in the kitchens at any of the royal residences, but he's certain they weren't nearly so joyful as this.

Richard is tucked in the corner, watching. At opposite ends of the centre table Mrs Mason and Mrs Stuart give orders with ease, co-captains of a smooth sailing ship, no-nonsense but with smiles on their faces. The latter of the two has eager eyes as she hands him a teacup full of the house blend; he says, "thanks," and takes a sip. Best he's had in almost a year. "You're the reason everybody new here's come out of Buckingham Palace, then, Mr Ellis?" she asks.

"Not _everybody,_ " Mrs Mason says, looking up from her cutting board, her nose crinkled. "Not _you._ "

A memory floods his mind: supper in the servants' hall, his very first evening at Downton, _'they're just people like anybody else, what do they need all them doubles for?'_ Eyes of all in the room flitting between her and him and Lawton and _Thomas,_ stolid at the head of the table. He'd raised his eyebrows and said, _well, Mr Ellis?_

 _Lord have mercy on you all,_ Richard had thought. _You'll need it._ What little he'd known, then.

"Yes, Daisy, we all know how you feel about the way _I_ got here…"

Mrs Stuart speaks in a Transatlantic Yorkshire. It's a conundrum that Richard will likely spend the next six weeks trying to get the knack of.

He wonders just how much she knows.

Thomas never made it clear.

"I've made a few recommendations," Richard says lightly.

"And Mr Barrow took them," she says. "When I were first here he never much took _recommendations_ from just anybody…"

She's got a conspiratorial glint in her eyes; Mrs Mason rolls her own. "Get on with that and leave him in peace," she says.

"It's not every day the King's valet comes to visit." But she goes back to the table and is folding dough over butter again in no time. "He's got to have stories, hasn't he?"

"I may have."

"Won't you share them, then?"

But Mrs Mason has come round to her side; she reaches in front of her, stilling the rolling pin. Their forearms touch. "Don't overwork it," she says.

"I know how to do a simple puff pastry, thank you."

"How long've you two been working together?" Richard interrupts. He's been getting letters; he already knows the answer. But this dynamic is tough to puzzle out—it's not entirely what he'd expected, with the information he's been given.

"I came back three years ago now," Mrs Stuart says brightly. She wipes at her brow with the back of her wrist. "Almost four… We've been co-cooks all the while."

"But she started as just a maid," Mrs Mason says, as though she hadn't done the very same herself, "in 1920." As she draws away, her fingers linger at the inside of Mrs Stuart's bare elbow. They didn't need to be there in the first place.

_There it is._

He can't help but grin.

"Then I worked for Mr Levinson in New York," with an irritated turn in her lips, but there's a fond smile hiding in her eyes. "As his _personal_ cook, and when they all moved here I came with them."

"She came separate," corrects Mrs Mason, heading back to the stove. "Just at the same time."

"Well, they'd handed me my notice 'cause of the market, but Mrs Patmore had already written to say she was retiring, and would I like to come back…"

He gets the whole of her story instead of telling his own, for which he's more than grateful.

"...do you travel very much yourself, Mr Ellis?"

"Used to," Richard answers, "but it's been ages… His Majesty's been in poor health for several years now, and I've been out of service since last July." He pauses. "I take it you liked New York."

"I liked it before," answers Mrs Stuart, pushing behind Mrs Mason with a tray of… something Richard doesn't recognise. "It was exciting, only it weren't so nice in the end… but I did see it at its best, I heard."

"Glitz and glamour?" he asks.

"Of all sorts."

"I'm still so _jealous,_ " says Mrs Mason wistfully. Mrs Stuart's over _her_ shoulder, now, inspecting the mise en place. "I never wanted to go, and I do like Downton, but…"

"But you've never had much fun in your life before, and I have?"

That woman's got such a distinctive frown.

" – you've got to sift this," Mrs Stuart goes on, pointing into a bowl, "it's clumped up again."

"Has not."

"Would you just look at it first, Daisy?"

And the bickering continues. It's charming to no end—he'd just been wondering about the _dynamic,_ if anything they've got more in common with him and Thomas than with any other couple he knows—but he's beginning to think he's overstaying his welcome in the kitchen. One of the maids is giving him the eye. _I'm at least fifteen years older than you,_ he thinks in her direction, but any attempt to convey that message in silence with his face will surely backfire. He downs the rest of his tea.

When he puts the cup back on its saucer, they both turn round to look at him at the same time, perfectly synchronised.

"Have _you_ ever been to America?" asks Mrs Mason, shrewd.

"No," Richard says. Mrs Stuart nods thoughtfully before returning her attentions to her work. "But I imagine I'd enjoy it." Some of it. "New York, at least… heard plenty about Manhattan." Again, some. He's got caveats; Thomas had some stories of his own—all interesting, but not all appealing. "I suppose the city has much to offer in the way of discovery?"

Or it had, before the current state of things had gotten underway.

Overnight change.

Mrs Mason and Mrs Stuart both stop what they're doing again and hover; though at opposite sides of the room, they're able to share a _look_. "That's right," Mrs Stuart says after a moment, happily.

"What is?"

Here comes the man of the hour—out of breath. He must've just been upstairs. As Richard stands the smile simply _happens_ ; it happens on his face but he feels it in his shoulders, too, in his chest, all through him down to his toes. He's got no say in the thing whatsoever.

"Mr Ellis of course," says Mrs Mason.

Thomas frowns. "Don't you encourage him," he says, coming to Richard's side. "His head's big enough as it is."

They can't kiss here; Richard brushes his knuckles with the back of his hand, instead, then his thigh. Thomas looks at the floor, pink rising in his cheeks, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he says after a moment. All the women in the room are staring at them, and Richard can't bring himself to mind—the top two are doing so kindly, after all. "There're some other people who'd like to see you, Mr Ellis, so if you're done chatting up our cooks…"

"Right," Richard says, easy, "there'll be more time for conversation later, won't there, you'll still be around."

"Sure we will," Mrs Stuart says lightly, brushing her hands off on her apron; she gives him a smile—almost flirtatious—and then heads for the refrigerator.

"We'll let him go," Mrs Mason says, again with an eyeroll, gaze fixed at Mrs Stuart's back. The eyerolling appears to be her specialty. He doesn't know how he'd forgotten that—then, his eye is drawn to different things today; the woman has a new energy now than she had the last two times he saw her. She's radiant. Fewer things to worry about, and more things to be thankful for.

Richard knows the feeling.

In a move both risky and very much welcome, Thomas takes him by the elbow and tugs.

"It was nice to meet you," calls Mrs Stuart as they enter the passage, but Thomas is pulling him along without any regard for the kitchen staff behind them.

"I liked her," Richard tells him, "Ivy. She was nice."

"You say that about everybody."

"Not _everybody._ " Not _you_ , he thinks, and it makes him laugh.

Thomas lets go of his arm and huffs. "What's so funny?"

But they're still walking with purpose; as they pass by the servants' hall several within stand, anticipatory. Necks crane. Thomas has other ideas.

The viewing window into the pantry is shuttered, _smart_.

Just before they go in they're accosted by Albert; Thomas spends what Richard would estimate to be about thirty seconds tapping his foot impatiently as they talk before going inside.

...which means it's probably been longer, actually, but Richard has enough manners to see the conversation through.

Afterward he steps inside, standing just beyond the doorway.

"Where's the new one?" he asks.

The next butler.

"Upstairs," Thomas says, "with Lady Mary." He's stood leaning over the desk, eyes intently scanning over a pad of paper, pen in hand, but a second look tells Richard it's a blank page. _Good acting,_ Richard thinks. They'll both need to improve in that, but it will come with time. "Shut that door, would you?"

Richard's heartbeat starts to flutter.

" _Sure_ I will."

Thomas looks up, an amused half-smile at his lips, a twinkle in his eyes. "Keep practising, Mr Ellis, you'll get the hang of it someday…"

The door latches smoothly. Richard turns the key a quarter way round—not to _lock_ , just to give pause. Another hoop to jump through.

They're kissing in an instant.

* * *

_14/5/33_

_My dearest,_

_Night after night as I fall asleep I turn my thoughts toward the future, when I will pass each and every night beside you. Each and every night I shall be in your bed, and you in mine…_

_…_

_…in the meantime my body yearns for yours. You know how I struggle to be patient where you are concerned._

_The day cannot come sooner._

_With abiding affection,_

_X._

* * *

**Downton Village, May 1933**

Thomas is shaking his head, fondly. Richard hopes it's fondly, at least.

 _Trunk call to London, Kensington and Chelsea._ The operator puts them through in short time, and then there's the _ring ring, ring ring, ring ring_ through the receiver. It's not as familiar a sound as it used to be—he hardly ever telephones anybody anymore, save for Thomas, and that's about to change.

Hopefully for a long while.

 _Hopefully forever,_ a little voice in the back of his head says, and he doesn't squash it. He knows too well what his heart wants by now, and Thomas, wonderful Thomas, wants the same things.

So why shouldn't he think his own thoughts freely?

The ringing stops, only to be replaced by fuzz. Somebody's picked up the telephone.

"Aplin, Gable and Bailey, Private Dressmaking and Alterations, Miss Bailey speaking."

Bullseye.

"Good day, Miss Bailey," Richard says, straight faced, because if he lets himself smile he'll start laughing by accident, and that'll ruin it. He's going for affected Oxbridge, prissy. Every Page of the Backstairs and Palace Steward he's ever known, though whether she'll pick up on which ones especially is up in the air. Beside him Thomas puts his hand over his face. He's smiling properly now. _Don't join him in it,_ Richard tells himself, _not yet._ "I'm calling on behalf of the Royal Household…"

He runs through the script—a year out and it remains fresh in his mind; he's made this exact same telephone call enough times in his life, and since handing in her notice Fred has received it plenty of times herself, he's certain.

Well.

Not the _exact same_. Never to a dressmaker.

Thomas bites his lip. Richard finds himself playing with the telephone cord.

"For the commission of an evening gown we require that…"

Evidently Fred has a script, herself. She's certainly more alert now than a moment ago. Must not get too many requests for formalwear this late in the season. He feels… slightly bad about this, given the circumstances.

Next time somebody needs womenswear, he knows where he'll send them—well, he already would have done, but especially now.

Sometimes he wonders how Thomas would react, if he took all that up again...

"...now, I'm afraid our earliest available appointment for a fitting isn't until next Wednesday, the 31st, but I'd be happy to take – "

"A fitting? No, no, that won't be possible," Richard interrupts, stuffy, serious. Thomas still has his face in his hands. "No, you see, discretion is of utmost importance… you must make do with the measurements, Miss Bailey, His Majesty King George the fifth has a reputation to uphold. We cannot have a scandal, can we?"

Silence.

Thomas snorts, then covers his mouth, eyes wide. The punchline's already been said, so it's a thoughtful but unnecessary gesture.

"...Dick, you _ass,_ " Fred says. She sounds like she wants to wack him upside the head.

In the post office they both burst into laughter, and then on the other end of the line she's laughing, too.

"Say it again, why don't you? He doesn't hear it enough."

"Thomas!" she exclaims. "That is Thomas, isn't it?"

"The very same," Richard says, as himself. Then, because he can't keep himself from blurting it out, "today's the day."

"You sound pleased as punch."

"He looks it, too," Thomas says, shoving his head between Richard and the call box; Richard frowns at him, halfhearted.

"Well, my wholehearted congratulations to you both."

She's being a touch dramatic, but to say so would be the pot calling the kettle black no matter which way he swings it. He says, "thanks," instead. Thomas is grinning.

"...you're in Downton, then, I suppose? One last hurrah?"

"You might say that."

"For old times' sake?"

"So he said," answers Thomas. He raises his eyebrows, cocks his head toward the phone.

 _It's tradition,_ Richard mouths.

"You couldn't've pulled one over on Wilson?"

"There's still time for that," says Richard, at the same time Thomas says, "maybe we wanted to talk to you."

"Trust Thomas to have some manners," Fred says. "Perhaps he'll rub off on you, now you'll be in close quarters."

She is the only woman—the only person, really—either of them have ever met who, always and without fail, finds Thomas to be more polite than he is.

"Come on, Fred, it was only a joke."

Thomas elbows him.

"I pranked Mrs Webb the day before I moved out of the Palace, not you."

"Yeah, I know," Richard says. "I was there."

Keeping watch.

"Thomas wasn't!"

"Well, we told him all about it, didn't we?"

"Not _all_ about it," interjects Thomas.

"See?"

"Right," says Richard, indignant, "who'd you prank the _week_ before you moved out of the Palace, Fred? I just can't seem to – "

"Goodness, you tell _me_ to take a joke…"

"You could've cost me my job – "

"And I could be on the telephone with an actual client, Dick – "

"Two of you're like an old married couple," Thomas mutters, loudly enough to be heard on the other end, Richard surmises.

Fred laughs. "Well, I suppose we'd better hang up, then," she says. "I'd hate to take that honour away from you."

* * *

_1/4/33_

_Dearest Thomas,_

_Sweetheart, you ask a fair few questions, but the decision is yours. Yes, it does seem you've a confirmed place there for as long as you wish it, I agree, and what I ought to say is that you shouldn't do away with it on a whim—you'll remember you went on and on at me about finding work before I handed in my notice last summer, so it'd be only fair. The trouble is, I'll be just delighted if you leave. If I may be so bold, I think this is little more than a case of cold feet on your part. What does your heart want?_

_Keep that interview. It sounds to me like a wonderful opportunity, just the right timing and work that would suit you well. Promise me you'll give it your all? You've nothing to fear, so take the leap and put your best foot forward. At risk of impolitesse you have in the past had a habit of taking yourself out of the running just when the race gets close, and there's no need for that here._

_Either you remain at Downton or you don't, and I want you to know that if you're set on the latter and nothing turns up, we can still make it happen. We'd hardly be the first couple in the world to make a go of it on one income. If need be I'll gladly provide until we can get you back on your feet._

_There's no rush. Do what you feel is best._

_Your always proud,_

_and ever adoring,_

_Richard_

* * *

**York, May 1933**

"Shall I carry you across the threshold?"

"You couldn't if you tried," Thomas retorts. "And it's not the same, if it's a flat."

"Can't it be?"

"No, Dick."

He sounds like an exasperated mother.

They enter the building. The flat is on the first floor; Richard is so excited he almost feels he could bound up the stairs four at a time. Instead, he rocks back and forth on his heels in place, tries to give Thomas a chance to look around. The man sets down his suitcase (one of two, the other of which is in Richard's hand) and reaches out one gloved hand toward the rows of letterboxes, uses his fingertips to guide his eyes as he searches. His hand stops about halfway down, hovering.

Thomas touches the nameplate, cardstock held fast by four corners of worn out brass. He blinks a few times, and Richard reaches out, too, and then—

"What are we waiting for," Thomas says, and he turns back around and takes to the stairs again like he's late to serve at table—proper, somehow, but unmistakably frantic.

Or in this case, excited.

Richard picks up the dropped suitcase and then is close behind him; soon enough they're staring at the door.

"Would you like to do the honours?"

But Thomas has already taken out his key—given before they boarded the bus back in Downton—and made for the lock. He turns it. _Clickclickclick._ It's not exactly as grand and ceremonial as Richard's been imagining it, but it's every bit as romantic.

They step inside.

"I'd offer to take your hat and coat, but…"

Nowhere to put them yet. It's been getting on his nerves. Clothes are meant to be treated with a certain amount of respect.

"Don't need somebody else to take my coat in my _own house,_ I'm not bloody gentry – "

Thomas cuts himself off with a gleeful, disbelieving laugh; they drop the baggage and end up in each other's arms as if magnetic.

 _Kissing Thomas Barrow_ is something he will never, ever tire of: his hand on his cheek, fingers tickling behind his ear; his lips soft, the occasional catch of teeth upon his lip; the way even after so many years Thomas seems to just melt in his arms, as if he's at last found where he's meant to be...

But they can't go at it in the entryway forever.

They leave the trunks where they are and get right to the showing-around part—nothing much in the parlour. He'd like a wireless as soon as they can afford one; Thomas would love that. Bookshelves, too, some kind of writing desk…

_Second bed first._

Thomas grabs his hand and drags him onward; he pushes open the door to the kitchen, left ajar when Richard departed in the morning, with his shoulder.

Sunlight streams through the window. They could put potted plants in the sill, like May has... On the table sit a bowl, a glass and cutlery left from breakfast. Damnit, this is what comes of being behindhand for important occasions... Thomas frowns, lips pursed, but doesn't say anything. He props open the window and nearly sticks his head out, peering down into the back garden—shared with four neighbours, divisions made where desired.

"Scullery is through there," Richard says, with a lazy gesture in its direction.

"So you do know where it is?"

Cheeky. Richard ignores him.

"Lavatory just past," he goes on. "Washroom's right above us."

"That makes sense, I suppose."

Thomas pokes at the dials on the stove; opens a few cupboards, a couple of drawers. _Those_ are all well-organised, everything in its place, and Richard feels a swell of accomplishment at the satisfied smile that results. He was a footman, once, he knows how things are meant to be.

The ice box is free standing, and currently empty of ice. Thomas glances at it. "Have you been eating well?" he asks.

"Well enough," answers Richard.

"You don't cook, do you."

"I can cook," defensive, "not _a_ cook, but I _can_ cook."

Earns him a smirk.

"And you can do better?" he adds, pointed.

Thomas shrugs. "I learn quick, don't I."

No arguing with that.

That's the lower storey taken care of; they grab the suitcases out of the entryway and start upstairs.

The door to the spare bedroom swings open with nary a sound, but the wood floor creaks.

"It is empty," Thomas says with surprise.

"What did I tell you?"

There aren't even curtains up yet; Thomas's eyes flit up to the empty rod. He gets this window open, too: down below the front street is quiet but hardly deserted. Working people, but every so often a car will come by.

Their own bedroom faces the garden.

They'll be safe here. As much as they can be.

The spare doesn't hold Thomas's attention for very long, so it's onward. Once the door is open they deposit the luggage on the floor, and Richard feels a sudden, if thankfully short lived, burst of anxiety.

It's tidy, mostly—he dusted up the day before, and the curtains are wide open; the room is full of light. He has their books, those of Thomas's brought to York gradually over the last few months, lined up against the baseboard, but everything else is in its rightful place. When Thomas opens the wardrobe he will find it to be spick and span.

But he apparently has more pressing concerns. Richard's attention is drawn by a very exaggerated sigh.

He imagines it to be a sound heard by many a hallboy in the last several years.

"Don't tell me you're still not used to making your own bed…"

"I chose not to," Richard tells him, "there's a difference."

Because he was running late.

Too busy daydreaming about the events of the day ahead to get on with allowing them to happen.

"Make a different choice next time," teasing. He sets about making the bed in what Richard vaguely recalls to be the most proper fashion—adjusting the corners of the base sheet, creating neat triangles; tucking in the rest of the linens just so. He's not very fastidious in this, himself; he doesn't need to be anymore… but he could get back into the habit, for Thomas. "But I suppose I can't blame you, if you never had to do it before last year…"

"Made up and turned down somebody else's bed just about every day for four years, actually."

It's too curt.

Thomas turns back toward him, opens his mouth, shuts it. Averts his eyes. "Sorry," he mutters. "I forgot."

Richard nods. He fidgets with a button on his suitjacket—already open, but still inconveniently easy to fiddle with. "Yeah."

"That's when I got good at it, too," says Thomas, now quiet. "Doing my own, and at the field hospital. And then back at Downton, in the convalescent home."

 _This is about Thomas,_ he tells himself. _This is about Thomas._ He'll not ruin the housewarming by losing his head. "They didn't have nurses for that?" he asks eventually.

Thomas scoffs. "They had V.A.D.s… 'cept half of 'em had never done it before volunteering, and the rest would've preferred to warm laps… I had to fix somebody's shoddy job every bloody day. Probably I do it better than anybody else you know," shortly. He shakes a pillow into its case, tilts his head to one side as he drops it back on the head of the bed. "Any man, at least."

"I'm sure you could hold your own up against a housemaid."

"Don't get used to it," Thomas snipes. "'Cause I'm not yours."

"No," Richard says, coming round to his side. "No, you are something much better, Mr Barrow…" Thomas is watching him, he doesn't have the element of surprise in his corner, but he pretends as if he does even so—darting forward and wrapping his arms around his middle while he's leaning over the bed, knocking him off balance.

Thomas drops the knitted blanket. (There's really no need for so many bedcovers in the summer, it's been sweltering some nights already, but he likes the weight. Maybe he won't need them, with Thomas at his side.) "Stop that," he says, "can't you see I'm busy," but when Richard tries to let go he holds him firm by the wrists and laughs, locks his elbows down on his arms.

He's always been stronger than he looks.

It does nothing to calm Richard down, nothing to quell the happiness threatening to overflow him. "Looks like I'm stuck," he says.

"Oh, well," Thomas replies, mocking. "Serves you right, doesn't it… so, are you gonna do anything about it?"

Richard nuzzles his neck. Thomas's grip falters for a split second before tightening once more in full force; his head droops back onto Richard's shoulder. He's got an uninhibited smile on his face. Richard kisses his cheek.

"No."

**Author's Note:**

> little a complex relationship to gender roles and war trauma and lampshading your other fanfic universe, as a treat ♥
> 
> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)!


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